


I Have A Lot of Feelings About A Lot of Things, and They're Rarely Wrong but Also Rarely Completely Right (Drabbles)

by LSPrincess



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Multi, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 14:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSPrincess/pseuds/LSPrincess
Summary: A collection of random drabbles and ficlets mainly inspired by my own experiences. Originally to help me through writer's block, but I thought I'd share since there's simplynot enoughfanfictions for this fandom. Rating may change, and more specific descriptions will be present for the separate chapters.





	1. Baking

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: T (For Todd and Farah and their _language)_  
>  Relationships: Gen  
> Directly inspired by my mom and dad's inability to work together in a kitchen (literally almost this _exact_ thing happened when we were preparing for Thanksgiving, and the majority of the dialogue are direct quotes).

Dirk had never been very familiar with festive traditions, and honestly, was he to blame? He’d spent most of his life in Blackwing, for crying out loud! It’s not like it was his _fault_ that he was so…inexperienced in what was the _norm_ for others. Though, he thought, gazing up at the cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, something in him made him feel it _was_ his fault in some strange, not-yet-obvious way. It was _his_ fault that he was so different, it was _his_ fault that he had been captured, _his_ fault that he hadn't gotten better, _his_ fault that he wasn't what Blackwing wanted.

It always came back to that, it seemed: he wasn't what people wanted. Wasn't good enough, wasn't _right._ He was _different,_ and not exclusively in the I-was-in-a-prison-for-psychics way. He was different in the way he _acted,_ in the way he behaved, in the way he _re_ acted to some situations.

Strangely enough, this was not one of those situations.

“Farah, you’re in my way,” Todd growled, bumping the woman with his hip and driving her into the edge of the counter.

“Ow! Well, maybe if you didn't take up so much goddamn _room”_ — she bumped him back — “then maybe this wouldn't be a problem!”

 _“I_ take up room? Are you calling me fat, Farah?”

“Yes, you’re fat. You’re the fattest person alive, Todd. Now stop being so touchy and hand me some soap.”

“You’re closer to it, I’m busy!”

“Todd, _soap,_ now.”

Dirk was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, staring up at Todd and Farah as they bickered like an old married couple — which was a phrase he’d learned not too long ago and had only recently understood the meaning. Apparently, he’d needed an example.

It was nearing the end of the year, and although Dirk had been reminded of how many holidays there were this time of year through the sixteen years he’d been free of Blackwing (have to reset that goal streak…dammit), he’d never actually celebrated since he was a child. Todd and Farah had been simply appalled by this revelation.

It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and they were all due in Bergsberg by tomorrow evening, so, for practical reasons that had needed to be explained to Dirk, they’d started preparing food at noon, only two hours after Dirk had risen from the warm cocoon of sheets he’d made for himself.

Hobbs was providing the turkey, Tina was getting a ham, Amanda and the Rowdy 3 said they would make side dishes (which everyone was a little apprehensive to try), so that left Todd, Dirk, and Farah with dessert duty.

Dirk could safely say he had never baked anything before, and he was frankly awestruck by how much seemingly unnecessary preparation there was. He had tried to assist by providing Todd with the appropriate measurements of ingredients, but unfortunately, that had ended faster than it had begun due to Dirk’s frustration with the U.S. standard system. So, he had been assigned another duty: the custodian.

Dirk had been more than disappointed with this new title, but once Todd had explained his responsibilities, his mood had improved exponentially. Being the custodian promised more than simply having to deal with Todd and Farah’s filthy cooking supplies; it meant that Dirk had to clean up the remaining _ingredients_ as well.

So, there he sat in the doorway, a tin bowl of cookie dough in his lap and a generous amount on his finger as he popped it into his mouth. Todd had warned him that he would get sick if he ate it all, and despite the strange tightness that was forming in his stomach, he ignored his dearest friend’s cautioning, and scooped up another mouthful.

“What is this? Hand me a towel!”

“Why do you need a towel?”

“Because the bowl is wet!”

“You’re going to fill it with water, Todd!”

“I have a preferred way of doing things!”

Dirk scraped up more of the sickeningly sweet substance and licked it off of his finger, his wide eyes bouncing back and forth between Farah and Todd as he fulfilled the duties of custodian with mindless abandon.

“And does your preferred way of doing things involve pissing off your partner?” Farah inquired dryly, turning towards Todd and leaning her back against the counter.

“In fact, that’s at the top of the list.”

“Oh, shut up!” she barked, snatching a dark blue dish towel off of the counter next to her and tossing it at Todd’s face, momentarily blinding him. He fumbled helplessly with the limp cloth until he tore it from his eyes, wound it up, and smacked Farah with it with a loud _snap_ that made Dirk jump, his loaded finger raised to his open mouth.

Farah grasped Todd’s wrist and wrenched the towel out of his hand, then mimicked his actions and smacked Todd right beneath his ribs. Once again, Dirk jumped, and this time, the blob of cookie dough fell back into the bowl with an unpleasant _splat._

Todd yelped and jumped out of the way of Farah’s next attack, snatching a wooden spoon off of the counter and wielding it like a sword. This form of defense confused Dirk, but Farah seemed to detect the latent threat, and her eyes widened in alarm.

And so, the battle commenced.

Dirk pulled his legs up defensively and clutched the bowl to his chest protectively, his heart stuttering at the sudden turn of events. Farah slung the towel menacingly at Todd’s face as if it were a pair of nun-chucks, but he blocked it with the spoon, striking Farah on her forearm with one swift flick of his wrist. The air was filled with derogatory name-calling: “jackass” was tossed like a graduation cap, “bitch” was shot like confetti, “asshole” went out with a bang and fizzled like a firework. Back and forth the names were thrown, and back and forth attacks were blocked and parried.

Dirk wasn't very familiar with holiday traditions, but he assumed this specific course of action wasn't as prevalent as it was in their little family.


	2. Sprite Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Relationships: Gen  
> Inspired by the time my mom did this _exact_ thing and I locked her out of the car. Original dialogue.

It had been quite a while since Todd had spent a lengthy amount of time with Dirk in the car, and an even _longer_ while since he had let Dirk be the one behind the wheel. Granted, spending time with Todd in the car had taught Dirk the more basic fundamentals of driving, but he did tend to go a _little_ (commonly a good ten miles) over the speed limit on occasion, but a hearty slap on the knee and a punch of the power button on the stereo always seemed to get him back within the acceptable speed range.

They’d returned to Bergsberg for the holidays, partly due to Farah’s orders and partly due to the sullen look on Dirk’s face every time he saw a picture of Tina and Hobbs. Naturally, it was Todd’s duty to keep his fellow colleagues (and really his best friends in the whole world) satisfied, so, the day after Farah had inexplicably taken off on her unbeknownst journey to return to the warm embrace of Deputy Tevetino’s arms, Todd had conceded to Dirk’s pitiful pleas and allowed them to join their other two friends (and one escapee friend) in the humble Montana town.

They’d only been there for half a day before Dirk started getting antsy, and had proposed that he and Todd go and have a look at the Cardenas house to see how the whole condemning process was going. Todd was rather taken aback by Dirk’s willingness — almost _eager_ ness — to enter Blackwing territory after having just narrowly escaped their clutches for the third time, but didn't object too heatedly, and soon found himself in the passenger seat of the small Honda they’d purchased, speeding down dusty country back roads and listening to Dirk’s amusing taste in pop music, which was not unlike the taste of a preppy teenage girl.

They hadn't been driving for too long before Dirk suddenly swung into an otherwise empty gas station parking lot, claiming that he was “parched” and had stopped for a drink. Based on the urgency with which he raced through the doors, however, Todd figured it had to do more so with a hunch.

It hadn't been two minutes that Dirk had been gone (which Todd spent idly chewing on his nails and skimming through the very few available stations around here) before Todd saw the automated doors slide open out of his peripherals. Thankful to have his company back, he jerked his head up, but the sight that awaited him was not so welcoming.

Dirk was hobbling toward the car, an unnaturally wide smile on his face that stretched all the way up to his sparkling eyes, and a crate of what appeared to be eight two litre bottles of cranberry Sprite weighing his arms down and bending his back in a way that certainly looked uncomfortable.

Todd could read Dirk’s lips when he excitedly mouthed his name, and he couldn't help the smile that drew his own mouth taut on his face. True, there was a burning bubble of embarrassment flaring up in the pit of his stomach at the sight, but he was never able to prevent himself from cracking up at Dirk’s childish antics for very long.

 _“Todd!”_ Dirk’s voice came, muffled still by the windows of the car, but gradually becoming more and more audible. _“Todd, look at this! It’s utterly_ fantastic, _don’t you think? It was only a dollar per bottle, and just look at how_ massive — _er…Todd?”_ Dirk tugged futilely at the car handle. _“Todd?”_ Another tug. _“Todd, would you unlock the door, please?”_

Todd crossed his arms indignantly over his chest and faced Dirk with a smug grin on his lips. “You’re a child, Dirk.”

 _“Well, actually, I think you’ll find that_ you _are the one acting like the child! Locking me out —_ honestly, _Todd? We’ll never get back to the station before sundown at this rate!”_

“Purchase eight bottles of cranberry Sprite on a whim, you deal with the consequences,” Todd said with a sigh, turning back to the front of the car and running the pad of his thumb over his fingernails, checking for any sharp edges that nicked his skin.

 _“Todd!”_ A fusillade of fruitless tugs. _“Todd, this is bloody ridiculous —_ please _unlock the car!”_

“You’re embarrassing,” Todd grumbled in response, casting a glance over his shoulder to see Dirk’s wide puppy eyes staring in longingly through the backseat window.

_“Todd, this isn't very chivalrous! My arms are getting tired!”_

“I didn't know you were _that_ thirsty, Dirk,” Todd remarked with a sly smirk.

 _“I’m not_ — _it’s for_ all _of us!”_

“So, you expect _us_ to drink all of that?”

_“It said ‘Limited Edition’, Todd! How was I supposed to walk past it?”_

Todd sighed and slumped forward, the persistent taps on the window almost completely drowning out Dirk’s insistent pleas. But, Todd knew the universe was rarely so kind, and so he could still hear the incessant, _“Please, Todd, please! I’ll break the window_ — _I_ swear _I will! Please!_ Please!”

With a huff of defeat he unlocked the car, and the haste with which Dirk wrenched the door open and deposited the cumbersome bottles was enough to elicit a rather unattractive snort from Todd. Dirk didn't seem too offended by the noise, however, and merely glared at Todd.

“One day, I’ll get you back for that,” he grumbled, his childish intonation removing any latent threat there might have been in the words.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Todd scoffed, folding his hands in his lap to conceal his bloodied cuticles from Dirk when he climbed into the driver’s seat. Dirk had caught him _once_ after he’d been chewing on his nails, and had reacted so violently that Todd had almost been able to convince himself to never do it again: Dirk had almost screamed at the sight of them, his face blanching to a startling shade, and had dragged Todd into the bathroom, carefully scrubbing his hands, disinfecting his fingers, then applying neosporin and bandaids to each individual digit. Todd had felt rather ridiculous, and hadn't realized until those following days how difficult life could be when you couldn't feel anything you touched.

Dirk cast him one more sidelong glance, a sort of half-assed glare that instilled everything _but_ fear in Todd’s heart, before starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot.

Todd glanced back at the bottles of Sprite they’d just wasted at least eight dollars on and blew out an exasperated breath. Yes, they _were_ limited edition — cranberry Sprite was only available during the holidays, and most every store Todd had visited had already sold out of them. He’d had no idea just how _crazy_ people were for artificially flavored carbonated beverages, but had learned quickly, and was, apparently, friends with a prime example.

“I’m sure they’ll be delicious, Dirk,” he mumbled quietly, and he didn't need to look up to know Dirk was beaming.


	3. Hide and...Get Stuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Relationships: Gen  
> Inspired by the time my friends decided it would be a brilliant idea to hide in my dryer and washing machine and got their dumb asses stuck. Original dialogue.

It hadn't, in the _slightest,_ been Todd’s plan. What, was it something people _expected_ him to want? Playing hide-and-go-seek with his almost-thirty-year-old best friend? Forgive his bluntness, but that just…didn't seem like something you _did._

They’d been on a case — Todd was clear on _that_ part of the story. It was what happened _next_ that had him reeling.

They’d been on a case, they’d been _working,_ and suddenly the bright (in both fashion and personality) detective had jumped up (knocking over his chair in the process) and declared with barely contained excitement that they were going to play hide-and-go-seek.

The poor guy had been _bursting_ at the seams with enthusiasm. Maybe _literally_ — Todd was quite sure that Dirk’s jackets hadn't always been that tight.

When Todd had opened his mouth to ask, rather professionally, _“What the fuck?”_ Dirk had dashed out of the room and practically _squealed_ that Todd had better count to thirty and come and find him.

Todd had _better._

Yeah, right.

Unfortunately, when in the eccentric detective’s presence, any vestige of will power Todd possessed went on a spontaneous vacation and  _wouldn't fucking return_ no matter _how_ desperately Todd prayed (and he had never been a very religious guy, so, honestly, fucking _rude)._

So, what more could he do than sit at his desk, aghast, for a long moment before closing his eyes and counting to thirty? Honestly, what more could someone _expect_ of him? He wasn't quite sure he expected any more of himself.

Before he could get to the big three-o, however, Dirk’s shrill (and rather _terrified)_ voice tore through the agency, and Todd was on his feet and dashing down the hall before he could process what he was hearing.

_“Todd! Help! I’m stuck! I’m stuck!”_

_Stuck?_ _Of course_ he was _stuck_ — he wasn't exactly a small person. Smaller than average, maybe, but who was Todd to comment on _that?_

He was about to charge up the stairs when Dirk spoke again.

_“Laundry room, Todd! Laundry room!”_

Laundry room. Of fucking _course_ he was in the laundry room. Probably got himself stuck in a basket or in the cupboard. Maybe some of the bags of blankets and pillows had fallen down on him. All of these were likely possibilities, and something Todd wouldn't be surprised over.

Dirk curled up in a ball and twisted like a pretzel in the dryer, however, _was_ rather shocking.

“Todd! Oh, thank God! I seem to have gotten myself _stuck_ in this _stupid_ thing!” Dirk gasped, breathing a sigh of relief and pounding his hand against the wall of the machine. At least, Todd _assumed_ it was the wall — he couldn't exactly see where Dirk’s hands were.

He should help him. Of course he should. Maybe he even took a step forward to make his way over, but now he was stationary and quickly pulling out his phone.

“Todd?”

“No, no, wait, hold on,” he insisted, barely holding back his snickers as he opened his camera and focused it on Dirk’s tangled form.

“Todd, this isn't _funny!”_

“No, you’re right, Dirk. It’s _hilarious.”_ He snapped a few pictures, looked at them, deleted a few that were blurry from his laughter, and then opened his messages to send the remaining ones to those who would appreciate them.

Farah, Amanda, Tina, Hobbs.

Send.

“How did you even get _in_ there?” Todd asked, crouching down and prodding at Dirk’s thigh.

_“Oof_ — never _mind_ that, Todd! Just…help me get _out!”_

Todd groaned and shoved his hand into the small circular opening, wrapping his fingers around Dirk’s ankle and holding his hip with his other hand, gently maneuvering him into a position in which he could pull out his feet.

“You know, whenever I tried to get our cat down from places he seemingly got himself stuck in, my mom would always tell me to leave him be. She said that if he found a way to get in that situation, he can find a way out.”

Dirk’s eyes flickered up uncertainly to meet Todd’s gaze. “Are you comparing me to a _cat,_ Todd?”

You’re damn right he was! Todd figured it wasn't too inaccurate of a comparison, either. Long, lean, unpredictable, prickles in the face of danger, but also dives headfirst into precarious situations — what was he describing, the man he was helping out of the dryer or a cat?

It took some mutual shimmying and twisting and tugging (and during that time Todd’s phone was _blowing up_ in his back pocket), but they finally managed to wrestle Dirk into a position so that both of his feet were on the floor and his upper body was lying back in the dryer. Todd offered him his hand, and when he took it, carefully helped him the rest of the way out.

Dirk leapt to his feet the minute he was liberated and backed himself up against the wall, glaring at the dryer with abject horror.

“That bloody piece of malevolent machinery nearly _killed me,_ Todd!”

“It didn't—”

“I think we should dispose of it at once, buy something newer, something _friendlier._ Something that doesn't harbor such an _obvious_ _grudge_ against me!”

“Dirk,” Todd said, stepping forward and placing a hand on the taller man’s shoulder, carefully leading him out of the laundry room, “I can’t imagine _what_ you've experienced during your cases, but _that_ dryer is _not_ sentient. It doesn't hold a grudge against you or _anyone here.”_

Dirk scoffed and reached up to fix his messy hair, patting down the stray wisps and then dusting off the lapels of his jacket.

“That’s easy for _you_ to say, Todd. _You_ weren't the one trapped within the rather _cramped_ confines of its belly!”

“It wasn't its _belly,_ it was the _drum,”_ Todd corrected tenderly, speaking in soft tones that were not dissimilar to the way a mother might calm her child. He ran his hand across Dirk’s shoulder to the base of his neck, where he squeezed it and rolled his fingers over the knots.

Dirk let out a shaky sigh and closed his eyes, leaning his head forward to give Todd better access to all of the stiff places — and there was a _shocking_ amount. Todd figured Dirk wasn't as immune to stress as he and Farah previously suspected. It was rather inconsiderate of them, he reflected — the Cardenas case should have been evidence enough.

He moved his hand with deliberation and only stopped when Dirk reached up and placed his own hand over the back of Todd’s, turning his head and smiling up at him.

“I guess I didn't win this round, huh?”


	4. Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Relationships: Gen  
> Inspired by the time my oblivious father ate spoiled ham all day. He didn't get sick, though — I just like tormenting Todd :))  
> Mainly direct quotes (except for the end).

_“Faraaaahhh,_ Todd doesn't know how to judge the health risk of meat by its color,” Dirk whined, prancing into the living room with a container of ham, whose color had darkened and dulled to a rather _concerning_ shade, if you asked Dirk (not that anyone ever _did,_ but he could always hold out hope!)

Farah let out a soft, exasperated sigh and turned to Dirk as he approached, taking the container of lunch meat from his hands and holding it up so she could see through the plastic at the bottom. She furrowed her brow and titled it slightly to get a better view, but when the meat slid to the other end of the container, she peeled back the lid and peered in.

All the while, Dirk stood by the couch with his hands clutched politely in front of him, his eyebrows doing a slightly erratic dance of worry. All he and Todd had wanted was a snack tray to accompany the movie they were preparing to watch when Dirk had picked up the suspicious wad of meat and given Todd an “Are you sure about this?” face.

After giving the meat a good once-over, Farah dipped her head down and took in three quick, shallow sniffs, pulling back slightly and frowning contemplatively.

“It’s marginal,” she said at last, closing the lid and handing it back to Dirk, who was more than a little hesitant to accept it.

“So…not good?”

“Nah, don’t eat it. I’d toss it.”

Dirk nodded, a spark of fear flickering inside of him, but he stamped it down before it could ignite into a full blown panic attack.

“Todd!” he called, turning on his heel and stalking back into the kitchen, stepping on the pedal to open the trash can and dropping the ham inside. “Farah said don’t eat it.”

“Wh-Wha…? B-But I've been eating it all day!” Todd declared, his tone tightrope walking on the border between fearful and defensive.

Farah had apparently heard him from the other room and groaned audibly. “Fine, then. Dirk, don’t eat it.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Dirk replied, turning toward the living room and giving Farah an unceremonious salute. “And Todd, in concern for your own safety, I don’t think you should have the rest of it, either.”

“Fine,” Todd growled, plucking the slices of ham off of the cutting board where their assortment of snack foods lay and holding them out for Dirk, who took them in cupped hands. “Throw it away and then wash your hands. The last thing we need is _you_ getting sick.”

“Why, Todd, I’m _flattered!”_ Dirk said, a bright smile gracing his face as he flipped the trash can lid open again and let the clammy handful of meat fall into it. “It means more than you could _possibly_ _conceive_ to know that you care about me so!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t let it go to your head,” Todd said, fetching an apple from the fruit basket and washing it off in the sink, leaving the water running for Dirk.

“Why, Todd, I hardly _ever_ let things go to my head,” Dirk said with a scoff, pumping soap onto his hands and scrubbing them under the warm water until they were slathered with foam. “I don’t know where you could _get_ such an idea. Me? Letting things go to my head? _Pfft!_ Preposterous! Especially not something as _minute_ as an expression of _concern_ — why, such an _inconsequential_ thing — not that I’m not grateful, mind you! _You_ concerned for _me_ — why, I guess that _is_ something that could _very easily_ got to one’s head. But nevermind _me,_ Todd, you mustn't let yourself get sick, either!”

“Too late,” Todd said vaguely, but when Dirk turned around and saw Todd’s white face and glassy eyes spinning around and dashing to the nearest bathroom, he understood all too completely.


End file.
